CHAPTER TEN: HAVE MERCY ON THEE

Arthur never thought he'd be in such a position where two days of bed rest could be considered hell on earth.

That was forty eight hours doing absolutely nothing. Just laying there, like a vegetable, while the pins and needles on his face turned into pitchforks and arrows. The paracetamol helped somewhat, though Arthur had a sneaking feeling that the tablets had expired last year. Soon, he thought, the pitchforks and arrows would turn into full-on bullets.

Wait, no, that already happened.

His only saving grace was the company terminal he had "requisitioned "off James. In his defence, it was company property, if a bit outdated. It had its perks, though. The solar-powered battery held-up relatively well, as did the extendable keyboard, that lacked an x and a s. It sounded like a maths equation more than it did a keyboard, but Arthur could make it work. After all, he had made the terminal itself. It was made to be a sort of in between point, meant to bridge the gap between computer and mobile phone. It had the portability of the latter, as well as the processing power and versatility of the former. It was supposed to, anyway. The thing had the frame rate of a Charlie Chaplin film, presumably because it wasn't connected to the Internet or something like that.

That left Arthur with only offline applications and files to work with. Of course, it wasn't all bad. There were several games that the previous user had installed, but they didn't look like much fun. What precisely was the animal crossing? Maybe he could find the answer in one of these other games. But no. All he found was an extensive library of other garish titles. Lands on a border? Who exactly is getting doomed? Furthermore, how does a particle's half-life get turned into a game? These questions surfaced in Arthur's head. They frightened him immensely- is this really what people did with his technological marvels?

He shook the thought off. This was his second day of bed rest, and it was shaping up to be worse than the first. There was the files to look at, and the developer tools and company tools Arthur could use. Only Face ID wasn't working for Arthur right now, so he had to resort to more primitive means of identity authentication.

iamtheboss23

Access denied. IAMTHEBOSS28 IasThe Boss23 Intheboss23

Arthur tried every variation of that passcode possible, eventually arriving at his last resort when it came to company hardware.

A factory reset, then logging into his secretary's account, which he remembered better for reasons he couldn't possibly conceive.

MrLangdonIsTheBest234

Access granted; you have logged into an administrator account: jack.ahlquist@ALco.admin

Arthur smiled to himself now, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. There was some snooping around he wanted to do first, however.

Direct Correspondence:

 Dr. G. Derwent RE: Project Financing

 R. HAVELSTON RE: office cleanup

 Dr. A. Johns RE: Quantum Computer

 A. Langdon RE: Coffee??? You have one job :/

This was going to make for some interesting reading, Arthur didn't have a single doubt. about that. He scrolled down further, checking Ahlquist's inbox. Sent Messages:

 R. Crane RE: Kew Sponsorship

 J. Jackson RE: Cease And Desist

 H. Piers RE: Company Layoffs

 C. Maxwell RE: Company Layoffs

 L. St. James RE: Mrs. L's appointments

Some of these names were all too familiar to him- others entirely foreign. Derwent's stuck out like a sore thumb, for reasons obvious to anyone who hadn't been living under a rock. And from what he could gather, James had been peddling his wares in New York without company permission. He hadn't the faintest idea who Crane was, nor did he know who St. James was. He remembered hearing that name in relation to his wife's midwife appointments, but not much else. 

But he had heard an awful lot about Howard Piers before the outbreak. He was head of the engineering department at Alco. for a good few years, until it was found that he had deliberately mishandled machinery to maim his subordinates. Records vary on how many had perished but the number was high enough for sales to take a considerable blow. He had spare Piers a visit in Wormwood Scrubs Prison a year or so after his incarceration, roughly six months before Derwent turned everyone grey and hungry for flesh. It wasn't the Piers he knew- that cheery, handy little Cambridge graduate had been replaced with someone who couldn't care less. Not in a nihilistic sort of way, no- in the sense that he could and would do anything he wanted. Empathy was out of the window, as was consequence. He supposed Piers was some sort of psychopath, but that didn't sound right. He wouldn't eat someone's nan with some tea, or pair their liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

But he had fed several men into industrial grade machinery, and watched eagerly as their remains were splattered along the factory line. He had said as much himself. Arthur shuddered. He was used to foul people, especially nowadays, but something about Piers was just terrible, plain and simply so.

Then there was Maxwell. The Prime Minister's good for nothing brother, who turned to work hungover more times than Arthur could count on his fingers. He had never Clark personally, but he was glad to finally have an excuse to give him the sack. But that was enough reminiscing- he didn't even want to remember Havelston, stupid insipid hooligan Roland Havelston. He was the reason Arthur was like this, faced another day of bed rest.

Arthur switched off the terminal, tossing it to one side and clearing his throat. "Doc? Have you got any more Paracetamol?"

"For the love of- you're only supposed to take 2 an hour!" Came Mercy's reply from

other room.

"And you're supposed to have taken the stitches out of my face by now!"

From the doorway, a pill bottle was flung straight at Arthur, narrowly missing his

head.